The Way You Want It

Harvey Weinstein might win the award of Most Disgusting Human Being 2008. Oh don’t mind him! He’s just trying to BULLY Nancy Pelosi into doing what he wants. He is, after all, very rich, didn’t you know? He can buy and sell the Democrats! If he pulls his money WE WILL ALL VOTE FOR JOHN MCCAIIIIINNNNN. (There are worse things, Harvey. Like your nose. There, I said it.) My point, however, is this: where are the cries for Hillary to denounce Harvey Weinstein because he’s a flaccid douchebag?

I’m going to start that battle cry. Because it would be FUN to scream “FLACCID DOUCHEBAG” in the streets, wouldn’t it? Douchebag is remarkably satisfying as a standalone curse word anyway. Terribly offensive and horribly disgusting — honestly, visualize it for a moment, if you will — but one of my favorites nonetheless.

This reminds me of a conversation I had with my sister over the weekend, wherein we discussed our secret lifelong desires to be nurses and she told me that while she’s considering nursing school, she doesn’t want to do anything gross, ever. Like vaginal ultrasounds. Or drawing blood. Or changing bedpans. At which point we agreed that perhaps a secret yearning to wear scrubs is not the best reason to be a nurse? (I am not grossed out by anything, ever. Which is why I do think someday I will be an excellent nurse, among other reasons.)

Well! Shall we take the debate on to safer topics? Because I have a confession: I don’t like homemade whipped cream. I like it from a can, as in Reddi-Wip. Or even … well, I like Cool Whip, transfats be damned. Yesterday I dropped by the local co-op — natural food store, to you and me — and was completely taken with a pint of organic heavy cream. It called to me, truly it did. It was that luscious, creamy yellow — the color of butter, not cream — that screams “For the love of Jesus, put me on ice cream!” I’ve never seen cream like it before. Rich, creamy smears of butterfat lined the curves of the jar, and it was so thick that it hung for a moment when shaken. Just gazing at it was transcendent. I simply had to have it, despite the fact that my ass has had plenty, thank you, and cream isn’t something I ever buy.

In its raw form, it is everything I thought it would be and more. Rich and creamy and simply divine. I poured a dollop into my coffee this morning and moaned in ecstasy. So good.

And then I had to go and whip it. To its credit, it whipped to soft, creamy peaks in approximately 11 seconds. It whipped so fast, in fact, that I was about three whisk turns from sugared butter, which isn’t something I intended and is not necessarily something one wants to eat atop ice cream. But still: it looked delicious.

It wasn’t. I don’t like it. I wanted Reddi-Wip. I’m making butter with the rest of it tomorrow night. The Ben & Jerry’s Cheesecake Brownie ice cream, however, was heavenly, though I don’t recommend it to anyone who isn’t in the throes of some sort of hormonal twist, because it lists cream cheese as the fourth ingredient. CREAM CHEESE. IN ICE CREAM.

(YUM)

This reminds me, too, that there’s something irreparably broken in our society that Extra — Extra GUM, that is — is suddenly being billed as a “five-calorie snack that lasts.”

Gum as a SNACK. A SNACK. It’s NOT A SNACK. That kind of talk just smacks of unhealthy eating and binging, and I’m sorry: shame on you, Extra. A healthy snack is a BANANA. Not a PIECE OF GUM. And to talk about it in the context of DIETING makes me so angry I can hardly see straight. “Go from nice gut to nice butt!”

WITH GUM. Oh, and try not to eat more than twelve grapes a day, fatso. Chew gum instead, say the Extra gum people. And stick your head in the oven while you’re at it!

Tomorrow, by the way, is Gynecologist Day. I’m a little excited. What I am not excited about, however, is that the nurse I spoke with said there might be … tubal flushing? With dye? That, according to my friend Erica’s friends, involves … UTERINE CLAMPING. I don’t know why, I just imagine a giant vise wrapped around my exposed uterus while some dude wearing a woodworking apron cranks it into place. “You’re all set!” he’ll say. “Send in the dye!” And then the Oompa Loompas will show up with tubes of orange dye ready to be pumped into my fallopian tubes.

Then again, this might not happen. Either way, I’m uh, ready? I guess?

Oh, the weekend is here! Almost! Happy happy!

*Keane

27 comments May 8th, 2008